The Last Post
by Penny Watson Lafayette
Summary: Sherlock knew that at some point in time, he would have to write the last post on John Watson's blog. He just hoped it wouldn't have to be so soon. Trigger warnings: mentions of war, hostage situation, major character death, grief (Oneshot, Sherlock's POV, after season four)


_I am not Doctor John Watson. Nor will I ever be as ridiculously brave, insanely wise or incredibly kind as Doctor John Watson was. I made a promise to him, when we first went on a case together: and it was that if and when the time came, I would write the last post on this blog. Unfortunately, it has come time for me to keep my word. _

_It pains me greatly to recall this day in particular. Last Friday morning, I was in the middle of trying to understand a case constructed out of a very peculiar series of events. In order for me to truly meditate on each specific detail, I needed absolute silence and told John to "Please, get out of the flat. I need my mind palace." So, he left. I don't know where John left to, and I also don't know what he did. I have no idea what was going through his head but I only wish I could tell you. Maybe he went down to Mrs Hudson and talked to her- maybe he met up with a friend or two. _

_Two or three hours later, I was still trying to piece together this case when my phone started ringing. An irritating distraction, I tried to just block out the noise until it stopped. As all phone calls do when they remain unanswered, it did eventually stop- but only for a second before it rang again. Nobody every rings a phone twice unless it's desperate. _

_"Yes, hello?" I didn't want to have to talk to anyone, I just wanted to get back to thinking about the case. Talking to anyone other than John drained me, and I just couldn't force myself to be polite, to feel out of place like that._

_"Sherlock, we need you urgently." Lestrade certainly sounded like it was urgent. "There's a man in Speedy's café holding the customers hostage. "_

_"Not interested." I very nearly put down the phone then and there. Here I was, trying to unravel a case that had remained unsolved for years, and Lestrade wanted help with a hostage situation?_

_"We think you might be." Before I even had the chance to ask why, he added "The gunman doesn't even want a ransom."_

_"Still not interested." _

_As I tried to get back into the right state to understand the case I was working on, I started feeling uneasy. At first it was just a small sensation, but then it grew, and it continued growing to the point where I could no longer focus on the case or the facts or even my mind palace. I just couldn't stop this feeling that something wasn't quite right. Thinking it might have been because of how close the hostages were to me physically, I called Lestrade back- I needed to know what the Yard knew. _

Staring at the laptop screen, I willed myself to continue writing- 'It's what he would have wanted, it's what he would have needed', but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I couldn't bring myself to continue remembering that day- the day where I finally found out what it was like to just crumble. To remain collected on the outside, but to want to run away, or to just collapse into a ball and cry. Never before had I wanted to cry this much. Never had I wanted to cry in front of people. But in that moment, I just felt so weak and helpless. Here I was, trying to appear strong, trying to appear like something I wasn't. Trying to maintain a detached level of concern while I felt my whole world unravelling.

The last conversation- well, it wasn't even a conversation, really- the last conversation I ever had with John Watson was telling him to leave. And though I only meant for it to be temporary, it ended up being permanent. Before I knew it, Lestrade was calling me for the third time that day, and it was to tell me that one of the hostages had been shot. Not even one of the hostages, the hostage. The only hostage I have ever cared for. John was dead. I could only imagine him, in his last moments. Would they have felt familiar? Would they have reminded him of the trenches, of Afghanistan, of his shoulder and the limp that arose because of it?

I didn't know the answers. I couldn't know the answers. I could never bear to find out. But in his last moments, I'm sure he would have remained calm. He would have been breathing through the pain, thinking of anyone in that café but himself. He would have been stronger than I ever could be, stronger than I am now.

I am not Doctor John Watson. I will never be as ridiculously brave as John Watson was. But maybe that's ok.


End file.
